Published by Graydon House on June 25th 2020
Genres: Domestic Suspense
Two women. A dying wish. And a web of lies that will bring their world crashing down.
Two women. A dying wish. And a web of lies that will bring their world crashing down.
Nina and Marie were best friends—until Nina was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Before she died, Nina asked Marie to fulfill her final wishes.
But her mistake was in thinking Marie was someone she could trust.
What Nina didn’t know was that Marie always wanted her beautiful life, and that Marie has an agenda of her own. She’ll do anything to get what she wants.
Marie thinks she can keep her promise to her friend’s family on her own terms. But what she doesn’t know is that Nina was hiding explosive secrets of her own…
From the internationally bestselling author of The Perfect Girlfriend.
Q&A with Karen Hamilton
Q: What’s the “story behind the story” with The Last Wife?
A: The idea for The Last Wife first came to me when I was setting up a book-group with some friends in my village. While I was researching book-group reads and recommendations online, I came across some stories which suggested that not all groups were friendly and welcoming. This really surprised me. While creating Marie’s character, I thought about how she would go about trying to join a well-established group. I also knew that I wanted the house that Marie so desperately covets to be in the woods because although they can be stunning, they can also set the scene for somewhere creepy and menacing.
Q: So much of the story takes place in Ibiza, why did you choose that location? Have you ever been there?
A: It’s one of my favourite places to visit, even though I haven’t been as recently as I’d like. Although it has a reputation for being a party island, it has the most stunning beaches and scenery. I thought that this would be a likely place for Marie and her friends to visit at that time in their lives.
Q: Which character in this novel is most like you and why?
A: Oooh, hopefully none! 😊 Although I’m now fortunate to have three children, I did experience fertility issues so I was able to write from personal experience about how it may feel for Marie not to be able to conceive. I also went to therapy ‘in character’ (a psychotherapy service called Characters on the Couch) to delve deep into Marie’s manipulative mind.
Q: Do you have any specific writing rituals?
A: I’m definitely a morning person. Prior to lockdown, I would keep to school hours. Since then, it has been harder with home-schooling, but I try to write as much as I can when I first wake up. I usually write at home, but prior to lockdown I was happy to write anywhere: on trains, in cafes, on planes.
Q: What message do you hope readers take away from The Last Wife?
A: That the grass isn’t necessarily greener.
Q: What can you tell us about your next project?
A: That I’ve been to ‘therapy’ again for this protagonist! It’s another manipulative main character within an international setting.
Clients trust me because I blend in. It’s a natural skill—my gift, if you like. I focus my lens and capture stories, like the ones unfolding tonight: natural and guarded expressions, self-conscious poses, joyous smiles, reluctant ones from a teenage bridesmaid, swathed in silver and bloodred. The groom is an old friend, yet I’ve only met his now-wife twice. She seems reserved, hard to get to know, but in their wedding album she’ll glow. The camera does lie. My role is to take these lies and spin them into the perfect story.
I take a glass of champagne from a passing server. I needn’t be totally on the ball during the latter half of the evening because by then, people naturally loosen up. I find that the purest details are revealed in the discreet pictures I snatch during the final hours, however innocuously an event starts. And besides, it seems this event is winding down.
The one downside of my job is the mixed bag of emotions evoked. I rarely take family photos anymore, so normally, I’m fine, but today, watching the wedding festivities, the longing for what I don’t have has crept up on me. People think that envy is a bad thing, but in my opinion, envy is a positive emotion. It has always been the best indicator for me to realize what’s wrong with my life. People say, “Follow your dreams,” yet I’d say, “Follow what makes you sick with envy.”
It’s how I knew that I must stop deceiving myself and face up to how desperately I wanted to have a child. Delayed gratification is overrated.
I place my camera on a table as the tempo eases and sit down on a satin-draped chair. As I watch the bride sweep across the dance floor with her new husband, I think of Nina, and an overwhelming tide of grief floods through me. I picture her haunted expression when she elicited three final promises from me: two are easy to keep, one is not. Nonetheless, a vow is a vow. I will be creative and fulfill it. I have a bad—yet tempting—idea which occasionally beckons me toward a slippery slope.
I must do my best to avoid it because when Nina passed the baton to me, she thought I was someone she could trust. However, as my yearning grows, the crushing disappointment increases every month and the future I crave remains elusive. And she didn’t know that I’d do anything to get what I want. Anything.
Ben isn’t at home. I used to panic when that happened, assume that he was unconscious in a burning building, his oxygen tank depleted, his colleagues unable to reach him. All this, despite his assurance that they have safety checks in place to keep an eye out for each other. He’s been stressed lately, blames it on work. He loves his job as a firefighter, but nearly lost one of his closest colleagues in a fire on the fourth floor of a block of flats recently when a load of wiring fell down and threatened to ensnare him.
No, the reality is that he is punishing me. He doesn’t have a shift today. I understand his hurt, but it’s hard to explain why I did what I did. For a start, I didn’t think that people actually sent out printed wedding invitations anymore. If I’d known that the innocuous piece of silver card smothered in horseshoes and church bells would be the ignition for the worst argument we’d ever had, I wouldn’t have opened it in his presence.
Marie Langham plus guest…
I don’t know what annoyed Ben more, the fact that he wasn’t deemed important enough to be named or that I said I was going alone.
“I’m working,” I tried to explain. “The invitation is obviously a kind formality, a politeness.”
“All this is easily rectifiable,” he said. “If you wanted me there, you wouldn’t have kept me in the dark. The date was blocked off as work months ago in our calendar.”
True. But I couldn’t admit it. He wouldn’t appreciate being called a distraction.
Now, I have to make it up to him because it’s the right time of the month. He hates what he refers to as enforced sex (too much pressure), and any obvious scene-setting like oyster-and-champagne dinners, new lingerie, an invitation to join me in the shower or even a simple suggestion that we just shag, all the standard methods annoy him. It’s hard to believe that other couples have this problem, it makes me feel inadequate.
One of our cats bursts through the flap and aims for her bowl. I observe her munching, oblivious to my return home until this month’s strategy presents itself to me: nonchalance. A part of Ben’s stress is that he thinks I’m obsessed with having a baby. I told him to look up the true meaning of the word: an unhealthy interest in something. It’s not an obsession to desire something perfectly normal.
I unpack, then luxuriate in a steaming bath filled with bubbles. I’m a real sucker for the sales promises: relax and unwind and revitalize. I hear the muffled sound of a key in the lock. It’s Ben—who else would it be—yet I jump out and wrap a towel around me. He’s not alone. I hear the voices of our neighbors, Rob and Mike. He’s brought in reinforcements to maintain the barrier between us. There are two ways for me to play this and if you can’t beat them…
I dress in jeans and a T-shirt, twist my hair up and grip it with a hair clip, wipe mascara smudges from beneath my eyes and head downstairs.
“You’re back,” says Ben by way of a greeting. “The guys have come over for a curry.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, kissing him before hugging our friends hello.
I feel smug at the wrong-footed expression on Ben’s face. He thought I’d be unable to hide my annoyance, that I’d pull him to one side and whisper, “It’s orange,” (the color my fertility app suggests is the perfect time) or suggest that I cook instead so I can ensure he eats as organically as possible.
“Who’s up for margaritas?” I say with an I’m game for a big night smile.
Ben’s demeanor visibly softens. Result. I’m forgiven.
The whole evening is an effortless success.
Indifference and good, old-fashioned getting pissed works.
Excerpted from The Last Wife by Karen Hamilton, Copyright © 2020 by Karen Hamilton
Published by Graydon House Books